A Black Wedding
by Let's Play
Summary: Bellatrix's Wedding Day. Includes field mice, ice cream cones, and a fire.


_Disclaimer: _Everything, excluding the plot details, belongs to J.K. Rowling. All hail.

_Author's Note: _A quick scribble. Nothing that I'd like to take too seriously. And most of all, it's just a one shot. I believe I've been convinced into changing my one shots into stories about one too many times...Anyways, such facts as Bellatrix's wedding to Rodolphus are just approximated from research done on Harry Potter Lexicon. Lastly, read and review, thanks!

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Sometimes, I like to wonder, how do people change the way that they do? And most of all, I like to think about how much I, myself, have changed. I'm doing so right now, pondering over things that even magic can't explain. Today, I am particularly pensive. Today, I'm to be wed. Today, I promised myself, is the last day that I will ever question the decisions I have made. Some things cannot be taken back no matter how many time turners you have.

I don't think I was born a murderer; do murderers laugh and cry? I do, though I hardly think anyone's ever seen me. Even as a child, I was only the disdainful onlooker to the gallivants that my sister and my cousin carried on. I far preferred to pick up on my reading or practice hexing the field mice. I will admit that even then, I had tasted the satisfaction of placing my first Crucius curse on an unsuspecting victim, although I never thought I'd go from cursing rodents to cursing humans. I suppose everything starts out as just a game. Until someone dies. I've learned from experience, someone always dies.

Behind me, the door opens. I feel my back stiffen and already my hand has shot to my wand. In my eighteen years of life, I've made quite my share of enemies. It has taught me to be on guard. My defense rapidly disipitates upon seeing my sister, Narcissa, reflected in my vanity mirror. She enters my chamber, shutting the door softly behind her. Her pale, classically beautiful face regards me in a way Narcissa saves for the few people she dares to care about. I have another sister, but I'm not ashamed to say Narcissa is my preference.

"Bella," she smiles as sincerely as she can, "You look lovely."

I give her an appraising look, Narcissa is more critical of people's appearance than most Blacks are about blood. I turn back to face myself in the mirror and I can't lie to you, I am what most people would call beautiful. I have dark hair, a perfectly symmetrical face, dark eyes that some call mysterious and others call frightening, and, perhaps my most favourite feature of all, the perfect cherry-drop mouth that holds the most lilting and musical of all voices. I don't even think I'd be as attractive to most people without my voice. Though, I will say this, my voice sounds rather more maniacal than pretty when I let my emotions run away with me.

"Why thank you, Cissy," I reply, with an certain staunch politeness. Narcissa frowns.

I busied myself adjusting my volumous curled hair, shifting it and pining it, hoping to avoid any further prodding on the account of my sister. She, however, was not one to let things pass easily.

"What's wrong with you?" she implores, a grimace playing on her face. I hated her grimaces; they aged her about ten years and gave her the look of someone with a clod of dung under their nose. "You've got the most curious look on your face," Narcissa noted, drawing close and slapping my hands away while she adjusted my thick hair. Only Narcissa could slap my hands without receiving an immediate Bat Bogey Hex in return.

"I'm fine. It's my wedding day," I answer, as if that should explain everything.

"Mmph," she murmurs, not the least bit satisfied with my reply. She didn't press the matter, though. She continued to fix my hair, making it look much better than I could have done alone. We sat in silence a few peaceful minutes before she posed another question. "How are you feeling, then? I mean about the wedding and all?"

Such an ungraceful sentence hardly left Narcissa's mouth when in public, but in present company I was glad she didn't try her usual mind games and slippery talk. I just wasn't in the mood for it. However, I wasn't exactly jumping all over myself to respond to her point-blank inquiries either. I couldn't tell her that despite the epic coldness of my feet, I knew I had to carry on with the wedding anyways. I couldn't tell her that I neither loved Rodolphus Lestrange nor did I ever think that I would end up marrying him. I've never been in love, but I knew I would have to marry someone whether I was or not. Rodolphus was simply convenient; a pureblood, a Slytherin, raving from a respectable family, and wildly enamoured with my beauty. A perfect candidate it seemed.

"I feel...anxious," I say. I had not yet acquired the ability to lie to Narcissa's face.

"Anxious?" she repeats, arching a pale blonde eye brow, "_Anxious?"_

She catches my gaze in the mirror, "You don't care for Rodolphus at all, then?"

"You thought that I might?" I scoff, pulling my head away from her and standing up. I walk over to my chestnut wardrobe and open it, shutting my eyes only briefly as the familiar creaking hinges moan in protest. Ignoring the quiet Narcissa now joining my side, I reach a pale, goosebump-covered arm into the folds of my robes and pull out my jewellry box. I am already donned in my wedding robes, a crystalline ensemble that has been passed down from various generations of the Black family, still in meticulous condition.

"Let me help you with that," Narcissa offers, taking up Black family tiara that I have unveiled. Her voice rings with a hidden quiver. Sometimes, I forgot that she is only fourteen.

I let her take the tiara from me and stand as stiffly as if I had just been placed under Petrificus Totalus. Neither of us speaks as Narcissa fidgets with the tiara; that is, neither of us speaks till a light knock wakes us from our individual stupor and Andromeda enters the room. I've mentioned her before, I believe, as my lesser sister, and though she and I look almost like twins, it would be appropriate to say that we were as different as night and day.

"Hello, you two," Andromeda greets us in a cheery manner that I can only tolerate coming from her because, and I know, there is no false pretence beneath her sincere exterior. "Everyone's itching to know when you're coming down," she adds in, settling with a large bounce on my bed.

"And who _is _everyone?" I ask, for a moment turning to face Andromeda, who was looking uncharacteristically proper in new dress robes in black and blue. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, accentuating the dashing points of her visage.

"Oh, you know, the usual," she spoke, then started to count the invitees off with her fingers, "the usual Blacks, other than cousin Sirius bringing along his friend, James Potter?; the Crouchs; the Lestranges; the Prewetts; the Goyles; the McMillans; the Gamps; the Bulstrodes; the Crabbes; the Notts;the Burkes; the Yaxleys; and, oh, I've nearly forgotten, the _Malfoys_."

Here, Andromeda shot Narcissa a significant look and, in turn, Narcissa cheeks became the lightest shade of pink.

"James Potter?" Narcissa sniffs, picking out the only unsuspected guest, "How dare Sirius bring that blood traitor to the ceremony?"

"Better a blood traitor than a Mudblood, I suppose," I comment, noticing Andromeda flinch out of the corner of my eye. Turning to the two of them, I offer myself up to one last critical inspection. Both of them, even Narcissa, seem only too eager to shower me with compliments. I risk a glance in the mirror; I'd looked better.

"Well," Andromeda breaths at last, "So it's time then."

I will say this, Andromeda had the irking habit of wording the most obvious of things, ranging from, "Tomorrow's Christmas, isn't it?" to "This really is your last day at Hogwarts". I could never quite tell why she did it, perhaps it was to make things official? Perhaps when something was said aloud, it became definite?

"Not quite yet," I inject, checking my nails for any sign of dirt. None.

"Huh?" Andromeda says, a clear expression of confusion sweeping her face like a broomstick. Narcissa opted out for the quizzical eyebrow.

"If you two wouldn't mind, I'd really like a few minutes to myself," I explain, careful to watch them exchange slightly incredulous looks. Shrugging, Narcissa pips, "Fine by me. I'll tell mother you'll be joining us in five minutes."

She shoots me one quick albeit meaningful glance over her shoulder and exits out my door. Andromeda picks herself out of the folds of my cotton sheets, flashes me a toothy grin and a thumbs up which I cannot quite resist returning and clomps out of the room too. I pause, listening to Andromeda's footsteps fade away. When I hear the last of those nostalgic black boots, I shuffle to the door and shut it, smartly.

Once again I am alone.

Openning my wardrobe for the second time, I pull out a chest roughly the size of three Hogwarts textbooks. I slip the thinnest of silver keys out from the folds of my robes and unlock my secrets. I throw open my chest and relish in its contents. Mishappen letters, bent photographs, yellowed journals pressed with night flowers and a muggle yoyo all mark various memories of my adolescent years before and during Hogwarts. I pull out a moving photograph of a sunny, spring day when Aunt Walburga had come to visit, bringing along Sirius and Regulus. The scene showed Andromeda and Sirius, contently licking ice cream cones, hands thrown over each other's shoulders. Regulus and Narcissa were to their right, each looking sullen and mutinous respectively. Regulus, because he had dropped his scoop of Rocky Road and Narcissa because he had dropped it on her new robes. I, as per usual, stood off coldly to one side. The warm breeze tickled my hair, silhouetting my face, yet I didn't even care to blink. My face was emotionless, my hands empty for I had turned down an ice cream cone. Looking back, I wish I would've taken one.

My dark eyes were still concentrating on my crossed arms as I set the picture to fire.

I drop it to my wooden floor, watching the corners of the photograph crumple. I take out the next few photographs; my fifth birthday, Christmas' through the years, Narcissa and I on her first day at Hogwarts, and a pretty shot of me riding my first broom, and toss them all into the fire brewing on my floor. I add in the rest for good mesure, giving them only a sparse look or two. By now, my fire was growing. I start shovelling out the letters, a correspondance between me and a pureblood boy who I had to discontinue friendship due to the fact that he turned out to be a squib. I caught a few sentences as papers burned. '_Dear Bella,'_...'_I have something I must say_'..._'Why have you stopped writing?_'

As I become rather unnerved, I start to maniacally dump the contents of the chest into the flaming incendo, watching the last of my anguishs, despairs, and triumphs vanish with the last of my journals. Pulling back the chest, I notice the bright yellow muggle yoyo still caught in the lock my its string. For reasons unknown even to me, the yoyo's defiance furiates me. I haphazardly set aside my wand and begin tugging at the yoyo to let loose. My fist lashes red from pulling and yet I do not relent till the yoyo comes off. Gasping slightly at the vicious rope burns scarring my hand, I add the yoyo to the fire. I let loose another shot of fire, causing everything to burn with rapidity.

I take notice of the fact that the smoke from the fire is overwhelming my bedchamber. I hastily douse the fire with a quick charm, causing the blistering mess to disappear. All that was left of my sudden rampage was my empty chest, my raw hand, and a charred black stain on the wood floor. I stare at it, regaining a regular pace of breath. I cannot quite say whether I am relieved or whether I regret what I have just done. I do not have much time to contemplate, however, as I hear an impatient voice calling my name.

"Bellatrix Black!" my father's voice calls up to me, sounding huffy, "_Will_ _you stop primping and get _down_ here?_"

I check myself in my mirror, adjust my tiara which had fallen askew, and patter out my room and down the stairs. At the bottom of my stairs, my father, Cygnus Black, who's face is perpetually red and angry, is waiting to escort me to the wedding ceremony in the back of the house. He looks up as I come down, studying my appearance, and he grunts. I take this as approval.

Gliding elegantly my last steps, I take his offered arm as he leads me round to the back doors. While my father wholly ignores me, I work to shape my face into that of a 'happy bride'. When I think I've finally gotten from grimace to smile, I freeze my expression.

My father sniffs the air, his greying mustache twitching, "Is that-? Is that smoke I smell?"

My face falls out of its insincere smile and into a real, and bitter, one. "Yes," I say.

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_Fin_


End file.
